The Confirmation

by Ralph Reed

  Battaglia realized he tipped his hand. He had to avoid being fingered as the source for this nugget. He could see the headline now: “White House Counsel Warns More Conservative Nominee Likely if Majette Is Rejected.”

  “Marvin, I didn’t say that,” Battaglia said, backpedaling. “The president laid out a clear standard for his judicial nominees during the campaign, and he’s not going to deviate from that standard, come what may.”

  “Methinks thou doth protest too much,” Myers chuckled, toying with his prey. He paused. “If Charles Majette lobbied for Wildfire, that would be a problem, wouldn’t it?”

  “Off the record, that depends,” Battaglia replied guardedly. The White House was still trying to reconstruct her husband’s billing records; the firm was not being entirely cooperative for fear of leaks. “To my knowledge, he did not. Others did work for Wildfire, not on the antitrust case, by the way, but on other matters. Charles never did.”

  “What if I told you internal records show otherwise?”

  Battaglia felt a sudden palpitation in his chest. “I’d have to know more.”

  “I’ve got the evidence in my hands. Frankly, it’s pretty damning.”

  “I’d be careful, Marvin. Billing records are funny things. Remember Hillary Clinton during the Whitewater scandal? I’m not saying Charles Majette’s firm padded their hours, but it’s been known to happen. In the absence of work product, you’ve got nothing.”

  “I didn’t say the proof came from the law firm,” fired back Myers, holding all the cards. “Obviously I don’t have a response from Majette or her husband yet, which is why I’m calling you. But assuming the evidence is solid and with the Wildfire case pending before the Supreme Court, it would be a serious issue, wouldn’t it?”

  “Let’s dispense with the twenty-one questions, Marvin,” said Battaglia, growing visibly impatient. “What have you got?”

  “Read my column tomorrow.”

  Battaglia’s throat constricted, his pulse quickened, and the blood rushed to his head, an involuntary physiological reaction to danger. “Marvin, we’ve gone over it with a fine-tooth comb. Be careful. Someone at Wildfire may not want Majette ruling on the antitrust case. I wouldn’t put it past someone to pass off fake documents as real.”

  “I think you better watch your step,” said Myers, puffing up like a poison toad. “Charles Majette’s story does not square with my information.”

  “Alright. Get me what you’ve got, and I’ll look into it.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Battaglia nearly blew a fuse. “You’re going to write a story about alleged internal documents smearing Charles Majette and not let me see them so I can react?”

  “My source gave me the documents on the condition that I not release them.”

  “That ought to tell you something, Marvin. For all I know, they’re forged.”

  Myers ignored the comment. “Are you going to give me a comment or not?”

  “No. You’ll get a call from the press office,” said Battaglia. He had no desire whatsoever to be in the story. “Write whatever you want, but know this: hell will freeze over before she withdraws.”

  “Can I quote you on that, maybe as a senior administration official?”

  “No.” Battaglia hung up the phone. He looked at the wall. The photos of him with the president were moving, their outlines hazy. Myers did his homework, and if he claimed to have something this damaging, it was usually reliable. Battaglia hoped Yolanda could survive the blow. He had pushed hard for her. If she went down due to poor vetting, he would take a major hit. He buzzed his deputy.

  “Get Majette on the phone. Now.”

  IT WAS NEARLY 10:00 p.m. on Saturday night when Charles and Yolanda Majette walked into their hotel room after a quiet dinner on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. They jumped in the car that morning and drove to get away from the media scrutiny, the clutch of reporters who maintained a vigil outside their DC hotel, and the unrelenting pressure. They hoped the time away would give them a respite from the madness.

  Yolanda’s cell phone rang. It was Phil Battaglia.

  “Yolanda, I’m very sorry to bother you on a Saturday night, but we have a new development, and we need to fashion a response pretty quickly.”

  Majette’s knees buckled. She grabbed the nightstand by the bed to stabilize herself. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Marvin Myers claims he has documents proving Charles did work for Wildfire,” said Battaglia. “We told him that was not the case. But we need Charles to search his memory and recheck his files to be sure.”

  Yolanda turned to Charles, the look of shock on her face conveying more than any words could. “What now?” he asked.

  She pulled the phone from her mouth. “Phil says Marvin Myers is writing a column claiming you did work for Wildfire.”

  “That’s absurd!” He grabbed the phone. “Phil, this is Charles. I never lobbied for Wildfire. I never made a single phone call or had a single meeting with a legislator or regulator. Not one. Myers is lying.”

  “One of our sources at the firm says he heard it was consultation between you and another lobbyist in the firm that turned up in a billing record,” said Battaglia. “If that’s true, someone in the firm is trying to drop a dime on you. Any idea who that could be?”

  Charles sat down on the bed, his mind churning. “There was a woman paralegal who did some work with me. She hated Long because he flip-flopped on same sex marriage. She mentioned it more than once. But I can’t believe she’d leak firm records to a reporter.”

  “Believe it,” said Battaglia. “Trust me, when the stakes are this high, people will do anything. Including forging documents and violating attorney-client privilege.”

  “She could have been doing research on Wildfire, then putting it on my work sheet.”

  “We’ll do some checking on our end. If you think of anything else, let me know ASAP. You can reach me through the White House switchboard.”

  Charles handed the phone back to Yolanda. “Phil, what are we going to do?” she asked plaintively, her voice quavering with fear.

  “Hang in there,” said Phil, trying to buck her up. “I know this is tough, but it’s part of the confirmation process. There’s a lot of fog, a lot of rumors. We’ll see what Myers has when his column runs. I doubt it’s a game changer.”

  “Thanks, Phil,” said Yolanda. She sounded beaten down.

  Battaglia hung up the phone. He wondered: Was it really worth this for a seat on the Supreme Court?

  G. G. HOTERMAN AND Deirdre were hiding out at Higher Ground, his weekend home in the Adirondacks, enjoying a brilliant summer morning. The June bugs were gone so he was taking a late breakfast on the deck overlooking the lake, its glassy surface reflecting the morning light. But as soon as he fired up his laptop and pulled up Marvin Myers’s column in the Washington Post, his day was ruined. G. G. tore into a piece of French toast as his eyes scanned the copy, letting out an expletive. Myers never let an opportunity pass without taking a gratuitous shot at him. He picked up his cell phone and dialed Stephen Fox.

  “Stephen, have you seen Marvin Myers’s column?”

  “Afraid so,” said Stephen, who paced the sundeck of his yacht in the British Virgin Islands. “Myers is a piece of human garbage. Can you believe he called my VP for communications at 5:30 p.m. for a comment? The piece was already written!”

  “The guy’s a slug,” said G. G. “Did you see where he fingered me as the guy who hired Majette’s husband’s firm? Pathetic.”

  “What a joke!” shouted Stephen into the phone, working himself into a froth. “So what if you recommended state lobbying subcontractors. That was your job. Big deal!”

  “It’s standard operating procedure,” said G. G.

  “It was brilliant to hire Majette’s husband’s firm, G. G. My only regret is that we’ve now lost a valuable relationship. They did terrific work, and now we have to cut them loose.”

  “I just hope they don’t find out we
hired law firms with ties to judges everywhere,” said G. G. “California is just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Tell me about it. Eliot Spitzer, call your office,” said Stephen, referring to the former New York AG and governor who had been a constant thorn in the side of Wildfire. Fox hated Spitzer so much that he threw a party when he flamed out in a call girl scandal.

  “I’m still stumped as to how Myers got his hands on the billing records.”

  “We think it was probably a rogue employee in the accounting department.”

  “What! You mean we fragged ourselves?” asked G. G., incredulous.

  “It looks like it,” sighed Fox. “We have a lot of gay employees, as does every technology firm in Silicon Valley. We provide health-care benefits to their partners. They were livid about the way Majette ruled on the marriage amendment.”

  “Sure, and who can blame them? But to leak proprietary information and put Wildfire in the crosshairs in order to sink Majette is beyond disloyal. It’s a fireable offense.”

  “It may well come to that, but we have to proceed with caution,” said Fox. “Given everything that is going on, if we fire a gay employee, there will be a rent-a-riot on the campus of Wildfire and all kinds of negative press.” Stephen shuddered at the prospect. He changed topics. “Do you think Majette will survive?”

  “I don’t know,” said G. G. “We need to see how senators react.” He stretched and yawned. “Ironically, it may be better now if she goes down. Because if Majette is confirmed, now that this is out there, she might have to recluse herself from the antitrust case.”

  “Get our lobbyists on high alert. We need to be ready for whatever happens.”

  “Already on it,” said G. G. “I have a conference call for my team in thirty minutes. We work 24-7, including holidays.”

  “I knew it,” said Fox with a satisfied chuckle. “That’s why I never complain when I get one of your absurdly high bills.”

  As Hoterman hung up the phone, Deirdre walked out on the deck wrapped in a black silk kimono-like bathrobe with the hemline at mid-thigh, carrying a bowl of blueberries and skim milk with a mug of hot chamomile tea. She sat at the picnic table on the deck, folding one leg underneath. “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Stephen Fox. Marvin Myers just outed us in his column for hiring Majette’s husband to do some consulting for Wildfire.”

  “Ooooh! That hurts!” she exclaimed, eyes widening. “Who was the bonehead who came up with that stupid idea?”

  “Me.”

  “Oh,” said Deirdre sheepishly. “Stephen isn’t upset, I hope.”

  “Are you kidding?” laughed G. G. “He thought it was brilliant. And you know what? It worked . . . for a while.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  It was mid-morning when Jay dragged himself out of bed, showered, and ordered room service. As he ran a brush through his wet hair, he noticed an envelope shoved under the door. Hotel bill, perhaps? Curious, he picked it up. To his shock, inside was a fax of Page Six from that day’s New York Post, sent by his assistant. “Jay Noble Does Paris,” screamed the headline. “The City, Not the Bimbo.” The Post’s dispatch brimmed with snarky detail. “Gabriella (no last name necessary) wore a stunning black dress by designer John Galliano that had jaws dropping and tongues wagging. After a reception with international glitterati at the Grand Palais, the power couple headed to the tony restaurant Laserre, where they dined on Iranian caviar, foie gras, and wild duck. Gabriella picked up the $1,200 tab. Afterward they decamped to the Ritz bar for drinks, where witnesses reported the love birds canoodled until 3:00 a.m.”

  Canoodled! Jay was incensed. The tab was $1,500, the caviar was Russian, not Iranian, and Jay bought dinner. He sighed with disgust. At least they didn’t know about the Cartier watch he dropped thirty-five grand on for Gabriella. He tossed the fax aside.

  A room service waiter arrived and set out breakfast on the small table on the balcony. Over café au lait, croissants with jam, and a cheese tray, Jay tried to distract his mind by reading the International Herald-Tribune. But the paper carried two stories from the New York Times chronicling the sinking political fortunes of Bob Long. As if that were not enough, the lead editorial dismissed Majette as Clarence Thomas in pumps and an embarrassment to her race, scolded her husband for trying to cash in on his wife’s judicial career, and called on Long to withdraw her name.

  Jay was relieved he was not in DC. He imagined his friends at the White House dealing with this crap. Just then his BlackBerry vibrated. He wondered who could be calling . . . it was 5:00 a.m. on the East coast. He answered to hear the authoritative baritone of Charlie Hector.

  “Jay, I wanted to give you a quick heads-up,” Hector said, getting right down to business. “Majette is withdrawing.”

  Jay slumped in his chair. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

  “Her husband’s lobbying is killing us, and his connection to Wildfire is a big problem because of the antitrust case.” Hector sighed. “Penneymounter was about to issue a subpoena for Charles Majette’s billing records. His law firm didn’t want that, and neither did he. I don’t know what’s in them, but apparently they didn’t want them to see the light of day.”

  Jay wanted to ask who had been in charge of vetting Majette, but he bit his tongue. Why pick the scab. “It’s so sad. She would have been a great justice.”

  “Well, we’re moving on,” said Hector. “The president doesn’t want his nominee to be bogged down in a bloody confirmation fight. He’s looking for someone acceptable enough to centrist Democrats so we can get at least some bipartisan support.”

  Jay could hardly believe his ears. If Long kept his campaign pledge and nominated a strict constructionist, it guaranteed a bloodbath. He guessed Hector had helped throw Majette under the bus, and he suspected racial politics: Hector had pushed for a Latino nominee all along.

  “Let me know how I can help, Charlie,” said Jay. “Now that I’m done with Brodi, I can lend a hand.”

  “Actually, that’s the other reason I’m calling,” said Hector. “The president wants you to quarterback the confirmation of the new nominee.”

  “Okay,” said Jay with a hint of trepidation.

  “Jay, the president wants you to come to the White House as his senior advisor.”

  “What?” asked Jay, stunned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea at all, Charlie. I’m much more effective on the outside.”

  “This is not an outside job,” Hector said firmly. “This requires coordination of the press office, the counsel’s office, public liaison, leg affairs, and the political shop. You have to be in the building to be in charge of the nomination, Jay.”

  Jay felt the breath knocked out of him. But he lived by the rule that you never say no to POTUS. “If that’s what the president wants,” he heard himself say. “But I want to talk to him first. And I’ll need your 100 percent backing. I need to know you’re fully on board.”

  “On board?” laughed Hector. “Heck, it was my idea.”

  Jay doubted that, but he shook it off. “I’ll get there as quickly as I can,” said Jay. He hung up the phone and walked off the balcony into the suite. Gabriella stirred under the sheets. She raised her head from the pillow and stretched her arms, her hair mussed. Even after a night of partying, she looked gorgeous.

  “Who was that?” she asked, yawning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  “Charlie Hector,” said Jay. “The president wants me to come back to DC and help out in the White House. I can’t say no. He’s been my friend and client for twenty years. I have to go.”

  Gabriella plopped her head back on the sheet and let out a low moan. Then, in a pique of anger, she threw her pillow against the wall. “I knew this weekend was too good to be true. I had a bad feeling the minute Brodi won that you’d have to go back.”

  Jay didn’t have the heart to mention Page Six. He picked up the phone to call the airlines. He had to find a flight to DC.

  YOLANDA MAJETTE WALKED THROUGH
the first-class lounge at Reagan National Airport, trying to avoid eye contact. She clutched her purse in one hand and a Bloody Mary in the other. On the television she could not miss the cable anchor announcing her nomination’s demise: “Battered by allegations about conflicts of interest arising from her husband’s lobbying, plagued by opposition from Senate Democrats, and left twisting in the wind by a White House unwilling to defend her, Yolanda Majette withdrew her nomination to the Supreme Court today.”

  Majette flinched. She sought refuge in a back corner of the deserted lounge and, passing by a coffee table with a Washington Post, her eye caught the front-page banner headline: “Majette, Under Fire, Withdraws.” Mercifully, it would soon be over. She was flying back to Sacramento and leaving her dream of serving on the highest court behind. Shell-shocked and embarrassed, she sat in a cubbyhole in the back of the lounge. She pulled out her cell phone and checked her voice-mail box. It was filled with encouraging messages from longtime friends. She found it strangely comforting.

  Then, unexpectedly she came across a message from the president. He must have called as she went through security.

  “Yolanda, Bob Long,” the message began. “I’m calling to tell you that I will always, always be proud that I nominated you to the Supreme Court. You conducted yourself with grace, dignity, and honor. No one knows better than I do that it is possible to come back from a bitter, hard defeat. Hold your head high. I’m on my way to Chicago for a health-care event, but if you want to call me back, you know how to reach me. I will talk to you soon. And I will always be your friend. God bless you.”

  Majette reflexively began to dial the White House switchboard, which would patch her through to the president, probably on Air Force One. But then she thought better of it. It would be too painful.

  Throughout the ordeal her plastic facade of calm had never cracked. But the president’s voice message unleashed a flood of emotion. In the privacy of the cubbyhole, Majette doubled over and quietly wept, her tears falling in drops on the carpet, silent sobs racking her body.